


Hush Little Baby

by Vain



Series: Broken Lullabies [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Non Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-05
Updated: 2003-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-10 19:14:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vain/pseuds/Vain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Broken Lullabies: Line F ~ Disturbing Material, Mature Content. - Same ole, same ole with a lemony twist: Harry gets captured and Severus does a bad, bad thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hush Little Baby

**Author's Note:**

> **Hush Little Baby**  
>  \- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
> 03.02.2003
> 
> ***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  
> 
> 
> **Standard Disclaimer:** I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. I am not profiting from this.
> 
> **Notes:** Special thanks you's are extended to **_Apapazukamori_** for beta-ing.
> 
> **Do not steal from me. __**
> 
> **** _WARNING_ :** This story contains **_MATURE_ CONTENT** , **EXTREMELY _DISTURBING_ MATERIAL** , **slash** , and **_NCS_**.

  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

" _'Your judgment is so abnormal that I begin to have doubts of your normality.'  
"He stopped, looked at me in a way that I will be unable to forget until my dying day, and quietly, very quietly, in a bitter voice asked,   
'And do you really think that it is possible to stay seven years here and remain normal?'_"  
 **\- Petro G. Gigorenko**  
Memoirs

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  


_S_ hhhh . . . Don't cry. Don't cry. Please don't cry. It'll all be over soon.

I gently steer him onto my lap and he whimpers as I kiss a bare, slightly tanned shoulder. I want to whisper soft words to him, tell him that it's okay, but I can't; they're watching. His bare skin feels hot and soft against mine, like running your fingers through a candle flame. Small, trembling hands make a sad attempt to cover his nudity, but it only makes him look perversely coy. My tongue flicks over the delicate shell of his ear. He cries out and I shudder—both from him moving on top of me and the odd thrill of pleasure that moves through me at the sound.

"Hush." My fingers glide over the shallow bow of is collarbone and slide down to tease a small, flat nipple. I lift my chin slightly and rest it on his shoulder so that I can see over him to image of the throne directly in front of us and the monster that occupies it.

"Please . . ."

I gently pinch him. "Don't tell . . ."

He's so perfect like this. God, I hate him.

A single tear slips down his cheek. "Please stop."

Voldemort's eyes glitter hungrily for more.

My left hand slides down and grips one of the child's wrists and my right sneaks up from his waist to seize the other. I pull them apart, exposing him. His back arches slightly and he makes a sound like a scream as he unconsciously lifts himself off me for display. One of the others laughs and I can't help but smile as he sobs quietly, struggling to pull away from me.

I shouldn't be feeling this way. My stomach twists in revulsion as I release his wrists to grip those small immature hips and pull him back to me. But I still can't keep down the sick surge of triumph that moves through me. His thrashing grows weaker. It had never been very strong to begin with—too many Crucius Curses. 

Hold still! Just—

All his wiggling around is only making this worse, damnit. Insufferable brat! Just—

I groan. Stop it.

"Please stop it," he begs me pathetically.

I close my eyes as I pull him tighter to me, partly to shield him from my view and partly to savor this moment. I feel his humiliation, his rage and helplessness, seep into me as one of my sensitive hands slides from his bare hip to run over the long expanse of his smooth, well muscled stomach and slowly moves down, seeking, questing. Little hands grab my wrists, desperately attempting to pull my hands off him, but he's too weak and I'm much stronger than I look. He makes a sound like a quiet scream when I find what I'm looking for. I lick a shoulder almost lovingly, tasting the fine layer of sweat and terror that's built up on his skin since his capture.

It's sweet.

I stroke him, touch him in an intimate, too-eager way that I know he's never before experienced. It doesn't take long to get the reaction I want and he moans through his sobs, both fighting against me and attempting to thrust into my right hand. He never did have an ounce of self-control. My left hand grips hip firmly enough to leave bruises. _I'm_ holding him. _I'm_ in control. He tossed his head back, bucking slightly—looking accidentally sensual and all the more innocent for his ignorance. 

He wants more. I know he hates himself for it.

We always hate ourselves the first time. And then again. And again.

I rise up to my knees and force him down on all fours on the cold floor, hand still at work. One of us groans.

"Oh, for the love of God, Sev! Hurry, would you?"

Shut up, McNair.

"Shut up, McNair," Lucius's smooth voice echoes. The lust and hunger is unmistakable in his voice and I feel it move through me, spurring me on.

"Art," I murmur against the boy's soft skin, barely audible over his sobs. He's stopped struggling, his small, little boy nails scraping uselessly against the stone as his fists clench and unclench. "This is art."

I don't know if I'm talking about the act or the boy. Either way, it doesn't matter. I think Lucius is laughing. I know the Dark Lord is.

The Mark on my left arm tingles as I position myself behind the child, forcing him up to his knees for easier access. I'm slow and careful as I position him. While I have oils on for myself, there's no preparation for him. That would be suspicious. My eyes flutter closed as I pull those small hips back down on me. There's an odd roaring in my ears and I'm only vaguely aware that he's screaming. Begging me to stop. Begging me . . . 

_"Professor!! Professor!!"_

I don't care. He's tight. I can feel him writhing against me, fighting like a cat and eager as a bitch in heat. Hush, little baby. Hush. I'll take care of you.

My hips move of their own accord. Too fast too soon. Too hard. He says it hurts, but I don't stop. Can't stop. Don't want to stop.

_"PLEASE!!!"_

Harder.

I want to hurl him away from me and claw at myself. I want to kiss him and touch him. There's heaven inside him and all the while he's screaming himself raw. It sounds good.

More. Harder. God, he's beautiful. And the sounds . . .

Stop crying, little one. Shhhh . . . Almost done. Just a bit . . .

He's whimpering now. _"Professor . . ."_ Such betrayal in that one word.

And the others are hissing lewd things, encouraging me, wanting me to hurt him more. No. This is art.

_Oh, God . . ._

And he's moving with me. Screaming somewhere deep, deep in the back of his throat, but moving with me. One hand wrapped in front of him, small fingers stretched wide as he attempts to grip my fist and force it to move. To touch him. To please him. I want to please him.

_"Professor!"_

What is he begging for?

It doesn't matter, though; he comes. A choking sound leaves him and he jerks in my arms. A pearly white suddenly coats the floor beneath us and he collapses, sobbing in quiet hysterics as I finish.

He never did have much control.

But he's beautiful in his tears and tight and sweet around me as I fill him. Fill him and then sit back and hold his limp unresisting frame against me while he sobs in despair. Beautiful. 

I grab a handful of wild black hair and pull his flushed, tear-streaked face up and capture his stretched and swollen lips in a hungry kiss. I don't know why I do it, but I want to kiss him and I bite his lower lip so that blood spills into our mouths. He tastes like fire. I tease him, claim him, snake my tongue into his mouth and suck on his bloodied lip like a starving man. He allows it.

He knows he cannot stop it now.

"Severus."

I look up, reluctant to break off that kiss or look away from his charming brokenness. "Master?"

Voldemort smiles and I want to kill him. "I was beginning to have doubts, my Severus. Beginning to wonder . . . But Lucius said that you had not strayed from my fold." 

A long, bony hand gestures for me to come to him, so I rise. Harry falls from my lap into a bloodied, shattered heap on the floor. I stride to the throne, shameless of my nudity. There's blood on me from the boy, but I pay no mind. I kneel at Voldemort's feet and kiss his robes, feeling the others look on—feeling Lucius's pride and Wormtail's envy and fear.

"I live only to serve you, my master," I whisper humbly into the soft cloth of his robe.

He strokes my head—a master petting his dog for a job well done. "Well done, my Severus." At one time I would have gloated over this. Now I only feel ill. "My child. My little lamb."

Harry's muffled sobs are the only other sound in the chamber as the Dark Lord fawns over me.

"The pleasure was mine, my lord." I can still taste the child's blood on my lips. Fire.

He pets me for a few more minutes before allowing me up. I can feel Lucius's lustful eyes on me as I pick up my robes and place them on with easy, unhurried grace. I am not a beautiful man, but my body is something to behold. Indeed, it has been held quite often. I teasingly allow a hint of promise to enter my dark eyes as they rise to meet those of Lucius. He smirks.

"Take the boy downstairs," Voldemort orders. 

I freeze before I can think. Me? "Master . . ." My mouth snaps shut suddenly. Questioning the Dark Lord was a notoriously stupid thing to do, no matter how good a mood he's in.

But he knows what I want to say. "I want our dear mister Potter more . . ." his lip curs into a sneer as he regards the insensible child on the floor, " _himself_ . . . for his demise." He grins and his eyes flash with obvious insanity. "Otherwise it won't be any fun."

I nod as the other Death Eaters titter in idiotic amusement and remove my wand. I magic the boy up (he hasn't moved since I dropped him to the ground) and stalk out of the chamber, moving with just the right amount of speed and sway for my robes to flare out behind me. The walk is short and it isn't very long before Harry is laying on a cot, still curled in his fetal position.

His wide green eyes are open and tears are sliding down his cheeks, but he doesn't move or speak.

"Harry?" I try to keep my voice gentle, but he flinches anyway.

A bit of life returns to his glazed eyes and he blinks once, very slowly as though the action were painful. I wait for anger. I wait for tears. I wait for everything but the single word that leaves his lips.

"Sir?"

I blink, feeling stupidly befuddled. For a moment we stare at one another and whatever I was thinking vanishes in a wave of emotions that I cannot identify. I turn away, unable to look into those unnaturally green eyes of his. And I hate him. I reach into my robes and grab a round, tangerine-sized bottle of green fluid. 

"Drink this," I order, shoving it in his direction. There's a moment's hesitation before he accepts it. I stare at the floor and listen to him swallowing.

I hate him.

"Sir . . .?" The word is slurred and indistinct.

I look over with detached interest as his pupils slowly dilate and his eyes begin to lose focus. No point in telling him that the memory potion I added to that healing draught will wipe away the events of this night. No need to tell him that Poppy and Albus know. That they're waiting. That one of Albus's pets is waiting in the wings to miraculously rescue him and steal him back to Hogwarts and heal him up. Replace his memories. Wash the bitter taste of this night out of him. No need to know that this was planned. That this was for my sake so I could retain my position. No. There's no need for him to know any of this.

So I lean down and kiss him gently on the lips as his eyes flutter shut. My skin crawls as I do so, but I want to kiss him. He slips away into merciful unconsciousness as my concoction takes hold of him. 

I trail my lips over to his ear. "One hundred points to Gryffindor."

It doesn't matter anyway—Longbottom will lose them all within three Potions classes.

I stand, ready to march back up, head held high, to take my place amongst the others at Lucius's side. I stand . . . and the world tilts sickeningly. I lurch over to a corner and retch, spilling what little I managed to choke down at lunch. 

I hate him. I hate Albus for allowing me to do this. I hate Voldemort for making me do this. But most of all, I hate myself for doing it. I hate myself for enjoying it. And I hate the twisted part of myself that wouldn't mind doing it against—not because of who or what he is, but because for a moment he looked beautiful to me and that beauty was mine.

I vomit until I can't breathe. God, I hate him.

But when I drink a breath-cleansing potion and straighten my robes, I feel sick anew once I realize why I'm walking so rapidly back to my former master and why I feel such release as I whisper the spell to signal Dumbledore's Aurors to come get the boy. Because for once, it's not for me. It's not for my guilt. It's not for my regret. It's not for the sickness I felt when he screamed "Professor" like it was the only thing he knew.

It's for _him_.

All for him.

. . . .

Hmph.

How worthless.

  


***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  


  
**  
_~ Fin_   
**   


  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***   


Continued in **Don't Say A Word**  



End file.
